My Unexpected Journey through Birth & Adoption

Month: October 2015

There’s no denying we’re raising an artist. Our dining room table is often an explosion of Play Doh, paints, crayons, markers, and paper.

Our six year old daughter is known to wake up before six in the morning, wander downstairs to the dining room and begin a new project. A couple of weeks ago she was forming Play Doh into ‘beans’ to use with a math game her teacher sent home. On another occasion when she couldn’t find any paper, she took coffee filters out of the pantry and made ‘tie dye’ using watercolors. It was beautiful.

Art is teaching her to experiment, problem-solve, and try new things. It’s her way to burn off excess energy and relax. Her joy and enthusiasm when she’s in her creative zone is contagious.

We’ve spent the last two Sunday afternoons learning about ceramics under the tutelage of a local clay artist. Our instructor helped her explore and learn about clay, working with her to create a one of a kind piece born of her imagination.

Painting her creation – a Halloween sign.

Hopefully we’ll continue to find ways to keep her imagination alive and her creativity flowing. Because creative outlets are as important to raising an artist as food and water.

“Boundaries dude,” I wrapped my arms around his broadening shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Kids aren’t supposed to pick up their parents.”

“Whatever,” he said with a quick laugh as he walked toward the living room. “Love you!”

“I love you more!” I called back standing momentarily stunned at the kitchen island soaking in the incontrovertible fact that we’d entered a new phase of our mother/son relationship.

The days are long but the years are short. – I don’t know who first said it, but I’ve been reading it a lot lately.

I don’t remember ever seeing the saying before I became a mom. And now it seems to be popping up everywhere – Facebook, Twitter, overlaid on Instagram photos.

Maybe it’s just suddenly hitting a little too close to home. In what feels like the blink of an eye my seven pound newborn is now a five foot tall 11 year old.

Gone are the days of carrying his sleeping body to bed when he falls asleep in the car. Gone too is my ability to scoop him up and away from danger. And all too soon, gone will be the opportunity to lean down and kiss the top of his head as he stands next to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying the benefits that come with having an older kid – he doesn’t need constant supervision, only occasionally has to be reminded to wash his hands, and he can get himself a snack.

And we haven’t hit the teen years yet. Luckily he’s still willing to hang out with me in public (even when we accidentally dress like twins), and even pulls himself away from the Xbox from time to time to sit down next to me for a snuggle. Most importantly, he still indulges me allowing me to tuck him in at night and cover his soft cheeks with kisses.

But there’s a part of me – a bigger part lately than usual – that feels the years of being a mom to a little boy went by too fast.

It’s been a long week. Kids were busy, work was busy, and I was short on sleep. The short on sleep part was my own fault as the husband and I stayed up late every night binge watching Hawaii 5-0 on Netflix. As our six year old would say “Not the best choice, right?” while tilting her head to the side as her eyes widen and her mouth curls into a crooked little smile. She shakes her head until I agree with her.

And to make it just a little more challenging to get through the last workday of the week, I was awoken by the shuffle of feet in the wee hours of the morning.

I opened my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness as I searched for our early morning visitor. I could tell by the sound of the footsteps it was our daughter.

“What’s up baby-cakes?” I asked as I pulled myself up onto my elbows. I tapped the mattress next to me as she rounded the corner of the bed, her blanket swung over one shoulder.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered hoarsely as her voice threatened to crack.

“Oh man, that stinks,” I said as I cuddled her in next to me and instantly felt her tense shoulders begin to relax. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“We were making pancakes for breakfast, and we ate them. And then a dinosaur came, and the pancake griddle caught on fire, and our house burnt down.” She nuzzled her warm cheek into the crook of my neck.

I tried not to laugh at the random nature of the dream, while at the same time feeling oddly proud that my six year old could come up with the word griddle in the middle of the night.

“Whoa, that sounds awful,” I said hoping that acknowledging her fear would help it quickly dissipate and we could get back to sleep.

“Well mom, it wasn’t all bad,” she said as if I was the one that only moments before had been near tears. “The pancakes tasted great!” I heard the smile in her voice.

“Well, I stand corrected,” I said letting out the laugh I’d held back moments before. “I’m glad it wasn’t all bad.” I kissed her head and pulled the comforter up around her shoulders. “Should we try to go to sleep?”

Almost before I finished the question I heard her breathing slow and within a minute she was asleep.

Ever since bringing our kids home from the hospital we’ve tried hard not to let them sleep with us. We didn’t want to start a habit we’d have to break and frankly, I never slept well with my kids in the room. Even now, I can never fully relax, always on alert for a change in their breathing that might signal a problem.

I knew I wouldn’t sleep well if she stayed in the bed next to me, but my eyes had adjusted to the dark and I could see her sweet sleeping face on the pillow next to me. I had the rare opportunity to snuggle her close for a couple of hours without her wriggling away.

So while I knew I would wake up extra tired, and likely a little sore, it wasn’t all bad. I had the opportunity to watch my daughter sleep and to hold her close.

Our kids are growing up so fast, I don’t know how many more chances like that I’ll get.

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